Monday, July 2, 2007

The Nautch Girl

photo courtesy www.hitchams.suffolk.sch.uk/india_art/starter/nautch_girl...



Once upon a time, in a remote sleepy hamlet of a town,in India, cultured, dance , music no religious hatredness, on a kotha of a nautch girl, a nautch girl is a professional danceuse..where Time to stopped to see this woman that moved her world on her two feet, gyrating away the sadness and sorrows of her soul.. to lyricless music of pain, and disenchantment.



One day the little boy who used to press the nautch girls tired feet massage them in a little basin of rose water.. the softness of the faded petals adding to the touch of the little boys tender hand…was asked by the mistress to go and get some sour mango pieces that the mango man was selling sounding off in his tenored voice….he went hurriedly and bought the mango pieces in a paper cone white and moist with ink.. like tears fallen on a dry palm..



The nautch girl , threw the mango pieces started unfolding the cone and read the agony of a poet began to shed tears..yes it was lyrical..a love poem of a poet in penury, a poet on hard times who might have sold his notebooks to keep the fires burning of his agonising life.



And the next time she danced on these lyrics translated into music.. all the pain was gone.. a flurry of a new emotion of love, yes our nautch girl was in love with the nameless, faceless poet..... such is love it catches you unawares..in its sheer simplicity.



She was in love and sent her emissaries to track down her poet lover, she succeeded but he would not meet her, on oath of death had told the person who had discovered him.. that he would send her new poems day after day….but he would not be seen by human eyes at all..



I am not a writer or a story teller .. so I will leave this story incomplete..



I will reveal the mystery of the poet,.
He had an incurable disease lived among the lepers in a lepers colony..his eyes were hollows , his fingers were stubs, a kind person down the road wrote his words that fell like tears from craters destroyed by the ravages of time...
He had seen good times, but than envious fate struck, all his loved ones , friends hanger ons deserted him like a sinking ship..
He had come and settled here when the disease errupted all over his body his mind his consciousness.

Its human nature to falling love , with a shadow , add our own flesh to it, animate it with humanly emotions , make it larger than life ,than when we see the actual reality , feel hurt, self inflict , curse fate for having let us down..cybernet love is almost like this, we fall in love with a face that is not even her actual face, her words that are distorted to lure, to honeytrap, to hurt , to squeeze out his testicular identity , yes beware of falling in love with goddesses on the net, they too are carved out of clay only the tiara on their head like Medusa is real swarming like a serpents nest to ..annihilate Man..simple , kind , naive , on the face loving Man..
Another one bites the dust.









I dedicate it to one woman.. in a world that keeps pushing the other one women ..in my life ... I am a dichotamous one woman man.


Afshaan... my wife my lifelog goddess..
the other the blog goddess.....
By -

Sunday, July 1, 2007

Bleeding Blogs

On the soil of my fleshly existence
Bleeding to death for all to see
encrusted layers of my wordless poetry
Butchered carelessly
My body from my soul set free
My blogs running towards the gutters
Of an open sea
words clinging to pictures
of a compositional tragedy
the girl child impregnated
a child mother s depravity
the transgendered tears
of hijda their alternate sexuality
the naga sadhus ling kriya
shai snan their royal priority
the sufis cutting tongues
bulging eyeballs their
soulless sanctity
the shias
allah ho akbar
proclaiming hussainiyat
as their nativity
as for the enemies of shiasm
yazidiyat
misplaced martyrdom
within reach of their calamity
By -

Bham Bham Bholenath

bure waqt
har musibat mein
tum dete ho sath
dhubte ka tinka
sirf tumhara hath
bam bam bhole nath
bam bam bhole nath
tum base ho sab ke dil mein
na koie jath aur path
bam bam bhole nath
bam bam bhole nath
har peeda har dushman
ka tum karte ho math
har har mahadev mein basa
hai sab ka bholenath
bam bam bhole nath
bam bam bhole nath

I am fascinated with Lord Shiva , so you see my proximity with the Naga Sadhus, this has nothing to do with my inherent nature as a Muslim .. but it is part of my cultural inheritance, I always wanted to visit Amarnath and Kailash Mansorovar, but somehow lack of funds, time always alluded me..but I know that Lord Shiva will give me wings to fly, shoot him , this I am certain..
I am still unquenched as I want to visit Junagadh on Maha Shivratri but each year, inspite of a genuine curiosity, it does not happen.
My Guru Shri Vijay Giri Maharaj of Shanti Ashram at Film City may one day take me with him..
I missed the Ardh Kumbh , inspite of having rail tickets that I cancelled inorder to celebrate my first Ashura in Lucknow , my last sadly so.
I promote Hinduism on my site.. as we have to learn to live and let others live too..
For my detractors who accuse me in Lucknow of doing this for Money from the Hindus s a greater insult to my upbringing as a Indian Shia Muslim…
But if some philanthropist Hindu takes me with him to Amarnath or Kailash Mansarovar I will not refuse.. his kindness and his generosity.
firoze shakir
photographerno1
By -

Boran Road /Someone calls me Psychic

This is the famous Bandra Boran Road , placcid waters reaching out towards Bandra HillRoad on one end , the end facing the rain revellers , they are moving towards the Bandra Bazar Road , all knee deep , just to the right of them is an open 4 feet gutter , a red flag has been placed there last year , it is still there this year.
Stupid this is a last years picture dont you see.
My poems and my pictures are mostly off tangent I say one thing through my pictures I show another thing.

So now read my poem written last year at Buzznet ..

Someone calls me Psychic

Someone calls me a Prick

Someone calls me Burnt Out Wick

Someone calls me a Slippery Indian Dick

Someone calls me Satans Talking Stick

Someone calls me Zidanes Corner Kick

Someone calls me Poetic Ass Lick

Someone calls me Prostituted Prosaic

I scratch my Balls , my Nose pick

Such friends that I did not hand pick.

4th of July

a cracker under the stove of my ass

will tick like a candlestick

thoughts of her

unspent dreams

of a Goddess of a Confusing Chick

at flickrs makes me homesick

love 1+1 makes none

the only arithmetic
By -

Falling in Love

Life will not be the same
said the ant
to me his confidante
I fell in love
with a human Blog Goddess
my insect like love
I tried to transplant
but she crushed me
with her avowal
I cant
I am married a mother
a cybernetic agony aunt
happy with my Adonis
a heave in a pant
no you little monster
me you cannot enchant

picture google images
By -

The Muslim Woman at Her Grave

when she was born her headstone was a tomb
such were words written in blood on her mothers womb

the Muslim Woman
sits and begs
watches humanity as it passes by
she was born to live she will live to die
her hanky soaked in a muffled cry
allah ho akbar there is more
than sectarian hate in Islam
than meeets the eye
grandiose masjids touching the sky
madarssas bloom manafacture lies
the muslim woman
chauvinistic male Mullahdom
her rights deny
ignorance the Jihad
turned a Nelsons eye
the Crescent weeps
with eyes dry
muslims love killing muslims
a thought underlie
can we ever as Muslims unify?
our priorities that we misapply
the muslim woman
the perfect scapegoat to crucify.
By -

A Beggars Bowl

This was a poemless picture at my homesite I shall fill it as a poem here at Flickrs..

treacherously tattered tear stained soul
a little speck of dust you made it whole
what is godiness without you
in my wretched beggars bowl
a navajo princess pride and vanity
a dead indian beneath the totem pole
stitched lips of silence words unroll
By -
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